Holmes for the Holidays
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John doesn't know it yet, but Sherlock isn't dead. Happy Christmas, John Watson. Christmas!fic. Reunion!fic.


**Holmes for the Holidays**

_I'll be home for Christmas._  
_You can count on me.  
I'll be home for Christmas,_  
_if only in my dreams._

Sherlock rushes down the street, drawing his coat closer. He irritably blinks snowflakes from his eyelashes as he tries in vain to stop shivering. Walking was a terrible option. He did not expect for the snow to accumulate, much less get heavier as he walked.

He knows he has to time this perfectly, because John has spent the last two Christmases at his Sister's. He knows he has to time this perfectly, show up outside of John's door right when John is ready to leave, to give John the surprise of his life.

John doesn't know it yet, but Sherlock isn't dead.

He shivers violently, his teeth clattering. He clenches his teeth together, flipping his coat collar closer and tightening his scarf.

It is Christmas Day, three years after the fateful events at St. Bartholomew's.

He has stayed away entirely too long, much longer than he had originally planned on being away. One thing had happened right after the other, and there had been a point where he hadn't had time to so much as sleep. He had been out of London for a short time- a short time compared to three years, but still far too long- and he was infinitely more happy here than anywhere else in the world.

His best friend was here, after all.

He rounds the corner, coughing slightly as he inhales. The cold air is bitter and unyielding, and he wonders, briefly, if that's how John's reaction is going to be. Is it going to be the air, cold and bitter? Is it going to be a breath on the snow, warm and inviting? Is it going to be the snowstorm, raging and harsh?

Sherlock doesn't know, he's fine with not knowing, although he knows that he will find out soon enough.

He coughs again. His breath forms a small cloud of condensation.

It's unseasonably cold for winter in London.

Sherlock lengthens his stride.

Two streets away from John's (new, three years old, at least) flat, Sherlock realizes with a small amount of surprise that he's nervous. It's subtle, but there, lounging on the surface of his mind. His teeth are chattering again. He is freezing, but his hands feel too warm under his gloves. His pulse is accelerated and his heartbeat is pounding away quickly in his chest.

For someone who is never nervous, Sherlock does not like the feeling.

He shivers again, shaking his head. He can feel snow landing in his hair and melting down to his scalp. With the addition of everything else he is going through, it does not help his mood.

He has never liked snow.

John had been disgruntled by that fact when Sherlock had told him. John loved all things to do with the winter holidays, except the winter illnesses. The holidays, the snow, the get-togethers... All things that Sherlock generally disliked that John was content with loving.

Sherlock slips on a patch of ice concealed by the inch of snow that has already coated the ground. He doesn't fall, although there's the inital moment of thinking that he will. He is hyperaware of that feeling now. He is hyperaware that he does not like that feeling.

He steps onto John's street and looks immediately for the flat. The lights are still on. He hasn't missed him, not that he thinks he would have.

He pauses for a moment, shivering again, visibly trembling, before he continues on his journey to the flat.

Sherlock slows once he is within distance of the flat. If John looks out the window, he won't see him, but Sherlock is still able to watch the windows.

So, he knows the moment that the lights flicker out in the flat, John will be stepping out. At that moment, Sherlock is prepared to step up to the door to meet him.

Sherlock loiters outside the flat for a few minutes, stomping snow from his shoes and pacing for warmth. He really wishes John wouldn't take his time. Doesn't he realize that Sherlock's slowly freezing to death out here?

Of course he doesn't.

The lights in the flat go out.

Sherlock scrambles up the three steps to the door of John's flat, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He realizes that he has no plan for what to say. He also realizes that perhaps he should have thought of what to say. He realizes, as the door opens, that he doesn't even have time to take a breath, let alone _think_.

John nearly walks into Sherlock, but when he actually takes the situation in, sees that it's Sherlock, somehow, standing on his doorstep, he stops moving, stops _breathing_.

Sherlock watches the entire emotional process run through John's eyes. The shock, the disbelief, the sorrow, the exuberation, the anger, and then back to the shock and disbelief.

"Sher-" John's voice breaks. Sherlock watches him struggling to speak. "Sherlock."

Sherlock isn't conscious of the decision to speak, but he hears the words "Happy Christmas, John" fall from his lips.

He doesn't observe the warning signs (the reoccurrence of anger flaring up in John's eyes, the fingers curling into his palms, the pupils dilating) until it's too late, and he knows it's too late by the fact that John's fist is suddenly aimed for his nose.

There's an explosion of pain and he stumbles from the impact before being overtaken by that feeling of falling again. This time, he actually _does_ fall- fall backwards- landing hard on the snow-covered ground three stairs below.

The pain is still radiating throughout his nose and it feels too warm; he licks his chapped lips and tastes blood. He raises a hand to his nose and it comes away dripping with crimson, the bright red drops falling haphazardly onto the snow.

"You broke my nose..." he mutters thickly, ripping his glove off to press his fingers against his nostrils. He looks up at John, ignoring the blood dripping into his mouth, who is still standing on the doorstep, breathing heavily.

Sherlock isn't sure what emotions are in John's eyes right now. It looks like a complete mess to Sherlock, which, he realizes, must certainly mirror John's inner turmoil.

"You-" John stops again, swallowing. It's clear that he's still struggling for the words. "You're _alive_."

"Alive with a broken nose..." he mutters, dropping his hand to wipe the blood off his hand. Further blood cascades down his face, dripping in a steady stream off his chin. He tries to wipe it away, without much luck.

"Oh..." John's voice is very quiet and suddenly he descends the stairs, crouching next to Sherlock. Sherlock is suddenly subjected to an awkward hug.

He isn't sure how to respond, and he tries not to focus on the fact that the stream of blood is dripping onto John's coat now, but he returns the hug after a brief moment.

It's easily described as awkward, especially given the fact that he can feel John's uneven breathing, and he can deduce that the anger and disbelief has given away to... Well, he can deduce that John is crying, although he isn't entirely sure _why_.

He pulls away and presses his sleeve to his nose. The nice thing about the cold is that his nose was already numb, and the cold is quickly numbing the pain again. As soon as the bleeding stops, he'll be fine.

"Oh," John says again, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "I broke your nose," he states suddenly, dropping his fingers from his eyes and beginning to frantically search his pockets. "I had tissues..." He bites his lip when he doesn't find the tissues in his pockets and Sherlock can sense that John is seriously close to a tipping point that will end with lots of snivelling. "Inside. Tissues, I have tissues inside."

He stands and offers a shaking hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks up at it for a moment, still pressing his coat against his nose, before reaching up and taking it.

John helps him to his feet.

Blood is still dripping from his nose and the taste of it is making him sick. The snow that he'd been sitting in has soaked through his coat and the back of his trousers are cold and damp, merely uncomfortable.

But John's hand is warm, comforting, inviting, and Sherlock feels simply _right_ for the first time since he faked his own death.

John's rambling about tissues as he hurries back into the flat. Sherlock follows him into the sitting room. The flat is completely devoid of the homely feeling that had been within the walls of 221B. There's also not a single Christmas decoration.

Sherlock does not comment.

"Ah!"

Sherlock looks back at John because of his exclamation, and Sherlock barely has time to react as there's a small, travel-sized packet of tissues flying at him. He catches them (he won't make the mistake of letting his guard down after getting punched out on the stairsteps) and rips them open, pressing a wad of the tissue to his nose.

"Hang on," John says, vanishing down a hallway. When he comes back with a dark cloth, Sherlock notes that the bathroom must be down the hall, quite possibly with his bedroom.

Sherlock takes the cloth and, shoving the bloody tissues into his pocket, presses it to his nose instead.

"I'm sorry, I don't know... It was a spur of a moment decision really... Did I really break your nose? Actually, it probably wouldn't be bleeding so much if I hadn't. I'm a _doctor_, and I broke your nose... I'm seriously a terrible doctor-"

"John."

He has to interrupt John's tirade, he _has_ to, because if the taste of the blood doesn't make him sick, John is going to. It's clear that John is panicking, not fully accepting what is going on around him, and Sherlock desperately just wants him to shut up and realize what is going on, to realize that he really _is_ here with him.

John swings his gaze up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock watches John's expression crumble.

John turns away, his breath shaking when he sighs. He strides away, stopping in front of the window. He doesn't move and he doesn't speak for the longest time, and Sherlock doesn't break the silence.

"You've been alive," John says, eventually, his voice quiet and controlled.

"Yes," Sherlock replies simply.

"All this time... You didn't tell me."

"I couldn't."

When John speaks again, Sherlock can hear the incredulity in his tone. "You couldn't."

"It was necessary to my plans for everyone to think that I was dead. Especially you, John."

"Why?" There's a strange moment when Sherlock hears the complete pain in John's question that it makes his own chest ache. He doesn't understand the sentiment.

"Because they would have killed you if I hadn't died."

"You said heroes didn't exist." John's voice is too high, clouded with emotion and with tears that Sherlock knows full well that he is trying to conceal. "You said you weren't a hero. And you expect me to believe that- that you did this to save me?"

"I do."

There isn't a more truthful answer that he can give him. He _had_ done this to save John, to save Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. John had one assumption wrong, though: Sherlock _wasn't_ a hero.

John laughs slightly. "If... If anybody else told me this, I wouldn't believe them. But... with you..." He stops, raising his hands to his face. He still isn't facing Sherlock. "I want to believe it. Compared with some selfish alternative, I want to believe it, Sherlock. But you have to understand... _Three_ years..."

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't know what else he's supposed to say. He's literally run through this meeting conversation in his head more than once before, although all of it seems useless now.

He removes the cloth from his nose, pleased to find that the bleeding in his nose had slowed down. He presses it back to avoid dripping blood onto John's carpet.

"I really am," he continues, a bit uselessly, he feels.

"Okay," John says. "We're... Well, you're really going to have to explain, Sherlock, because I still don't know what's going on, but... tomorrow?" He says it like a question, wholly unsure and sounding frightened of the answer.

"Of course," Sherlock replies. "It's Christmas, after all. No need to be doom and gloom on the topics we talk about."

"Right..." John turns back around, scrubbing his eyes. They're red. Sherlock notices the tear tracks on his face, too, but wisely does not mention it. John looks at him helplessly for a moment. "I didn't get you a Christmas present."

Sherlock blinks. "Why would you?" He watches the pain flit across John's features again and he quickly adds "I didn't get you anything, either."

"You did," John replies seriously. "You really did."

Sherlock watches him for a moment before smiling hesitantly. John returns the smile just as tentatively.

Sherlock realizes it's going to take a long time before their friendship recovers, before things return to any sort of normalcy, but, he notes, he is extraordinarily happy to be back home.

_Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays,_  
_for no matter how far away you roam._  
_When you long for the sunshine of a friendly gaze,_  
_for the holidays, you can't beat home, sweet home._

* * *

**a) Yes, I did the cheesy title. It makes me smile. [Yes, I also say 'I'll be Holmes for Christmas'.]  
b) Apparently, hyperaware isn't a word. That being said, I had to pick it up somewhere, and it means 'highly aware', as far as I know. And, also, exuberation isn't in the dictionary, so, have at that what you will.  
c) The opening song is _I'll be Home for Christmas_, the closing song is _(There's No Place like) Home for the Holidays_. I own neither and simply wanted to include them for the sake of the Christmas part of the story.  
d) If you don't like Christmas!fics, run away and hide. It's officially December. Prepare for attack of the Christmas fluff.**

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
